A drainpipe of poetry,
An onslaught of emotions
Ordered into words,
and lines
And accessible thoughts,
Feelings transplanted from poet to paper
To a stranger’s heart.
Drainpipes block when they’re too full,
Brimming with ideas that never reach the page,
They grow moth-eaten in the mind.
But sometimes there is nothing there,
No pleasure or pain,
Only dry and derelict words.
Not writer’s block,
But an inspirational drought.
